Apples Never Fall

Silence filled the car as they drove down the highway, every traffic light inevitably turning red as they approached, causing Troy to just about lose his mind. Logan hummed under his breath, elbow halfway out the car window, head back against the headrest, as if he were a layabout teenager off to the beach with his friends. He probably still went to the beach with his friends. They probably had barbecues and played beach cricket. Logan was still in touch with his entire circle of high school friends, which made Troy feel both contemptuous—how parochial, how very Sydney—and envious.

Troy liked the idea of old friends, just not the reality. When old friends tried to get in touch with him, he always shuddered. It was like they were trying to take something away from him, to peel off an outer layer and show everyone the uncouth, unsophisticated kid he used to be. He was always kind of surprised old friends still existed.

Logan continued to whistle. The guy needed a haircut, a shave, probably a shower, for fuck’s sake.

It was the same toneless, two-note tune Logan used to hum on long car journeys to tournaments when they were kids, the tune that would malevolently worm its way into Troy’s consciousness until he had no choice but to resort to violence, because come on, now, how many times did he have to ask him to stop?

“Don’t.” He touched Logan’s shoulder. “Please don’t.”

Logan stopped humming abruptly. He glanced once at Troy, switched on the radio, and changed lanes unnecessarily.

Troy closed his eyes so he didn’t have to see the next traffic light turn red, and it occurred to him that maybe Logan’s humming was a nervous tic, and in the way that a random thought about your childhood can suddenly offer a startling new adult clarity, he saw in a flash that this was true: Logan hummed when he was nervous. He had hummed on the way to tournaments because he was nervous, and Troy couldn’t stand the sound of it because he himself had been suffering pregame nerves.

So Logan was nervous right now.

It wouldn’t be the threat to his own safety worrying him, but the possibility of being involved in a disagreement. Logan had a severe conflict allergy. He’d pick up his cutlery and eat rather than tell a waitress, “That’s not what I ordered.” Even if it was vegetarian. When he used to play the most notorious cheats on the circuit, he never questioned their calls. It was his brother’s most significant and, for Troy, most mystifying flaw.

Of co

urse, Logan’s conflict allergy hadn’t applied to Troy. The two of them used to fight to the death. Troy traced his finger down the faint white line on his forearm. Sixteen stitches. He and Logan had smashed through a window onto the front lawn while they were fighting, like a scene from Die Hard. Logan had a similar scar on his thigh. It was one of Troy’s favorite childhood memories: the two of them looking at each other with shocked, thrilled eyes, bloody limbs, glass fragments shining in their hair, their poor mother screaming her head off.

Now Logan competed against Troy by not competing, which was fucking genius. You couldn’t win if only one of you was playing.

Savannah spoke up from the back seat. “When I said that about not sponging off your parents, I hope I didn’t come across as … ungrateful.”

Troy opened his eyes. “Not at all.”

He slid the words at and all together to make the one word a-tall, a linguistic habit he’d taught himself as a teenager, when he’d heard it used by someone on the radio and decided it sounded sophisticated. It still gave him pleasure. Like a fashion choice.

He saw the harbor, and his heart lifted at the sight of apartment blocks, office towers, skyscrapers, the Harbour Bridge: civilization, even if it was only Sydney civilization, not proper civilization.

Savannah continued talking. “Like, I’m really grateful to you both for doing this, and to your parents, your parents are fab.” Fab. Odd choice of word. Circa 1990? “They’re, like, one of a kind. Amazing people. Truly.”

Amazing people. Troy looked at Logan. They’d heard a lot of that growing up: Your parents are so cool. Your parents aren’t like other parents with boring office jobs. We wish we had parents like yours.

“It’s all good,” said Troy. “No problem a-tall.” He twisted around to smile his most dazzling smile at her. She smiled back. A girl had once told Troy that he had a “devastating” smile. He secretly treasured that compliment. Devastating.

“So we take a left here, right?” said Logan.

Troy jerked his head. He had not bothered to ask the location of Savannah’s unit, but had assumed they were heading over the bridge to some suburb he’d never heard of, way out in the boondocks, right under a flight path or two. Instead he saw they were driving through a hip harborside neighborhood where he himself had lived in his twenties. He’d had after-work drinks at that pub on the corner. He’d taken dates to that little Thai restaurant. This was an area for IT guys in hoodies, junior execs in high heels, and law graduates in new suits. People here were too young and happy, attractive and cashed-up to hit their girlfriends.

“Go straight at the roundabout,” said Savannah. “And then it’s the big apartment block right there. That’s it. There’s heaps of visitors’ parking.”

Troy craned his neck. “You must have good views?” He realized he was now feeling more sympathy toward her, as if someone who lived in this suburb really didn’t deserve a violent boyfriend. His neck turned red with shame.

“Our unit doesn’t face the harbor,” said Savannah. “It’s just a one-bedroom. They reduced the rent because it’s got a really crappy kitchen and bathroom. It’s the only unrenovated apartment in the building.” It was like she was explaining how they could afford to live here, like she’d seen his neck and read his thoughts.

Logan parked, and he and Troy got out of the car, unwinding their bodies with relief, the way men of their height did when released from cars and airplanes.

Logan removed from the trunk a couple of supermarket cardboard boxes that their mother had given them for Savannah’s belongings, while Troy stuck his hands in his pockets and kicked his heels against the pavement. He looked about for any nefarious types, but the place was deserted. Everyone would be at work right now. This wasn’t an area for young families.

“Um … is she getting out?” Troy said to Logan after a moment.

Logan shrugged. He ducked down to look. “She’s just sitting there.”

“Should we give her a second?” said Troy.

Logan shrugged again. It was like his default gesture.